Marynia did not complain even to herself of her husband. So far there had not been the least misunderstanding between them. But she was forced to confess that genuine, very great happiness, and especially very great love, such as she had imagined when Pan Stanislav was her betrothed, she had imagined as different. Of this each day convinced her: her hopes had been of one kind; reality proved to be of another. Marynia’s honest nature did not rebel against this reality; but a shade of sadness came over her, and the feeling that that shade might in time be the basis of her life. With a soul full of good-will, she tried to explain to herself at the beginning that those were her own fancies. What was lacking to her, and in what could Pan Stanislav have disappointed her? He had never caused her pain purposely; as often as it occurred to him that a given thing might please her, he tried to obtain it; he was liberal, careful of her health; at times he covered her face and hands with kisses,—in a word, he was rather kind than ill-natured. Still there was something lacking. It was difficult for Marynia to describe this in one word, or in many; but her mind was too clear not to understand what her heart felt every day more distinctly, every day with more sadness. Something was wanting! After a great and solemn holiday of love, a series of common days had set in, and she regretted the holiday; she would have it last all her life; she saw now, with sorrow, that to her husband this common life seemed precisely what was normal and wished for. It was not bad, such as it was; but it was not that high happiness which “such a man” should be able to feel, create, and impart. But there was a question of other things also. She felt, for example, that she was more his than he was hers; and that though she gave him her whole soul, he returned to her only that part of his which he had designed in advance for home use. It is true that she said to herself, “He is a man; besides me he has a whole world of work and thought.” But she had hoped once that he would take her by the hand and lead her into that world,—that in the house, at least, he would share it with her; at present she could not even flatter herself that he would do so. And the reality was worse than she had imagined. Pan Stanislav, as he expressed himself, took her, and had her; and when their mutual feeling became at the same time a simple mutual obligation, he judged that it was not needful otherwise to care for her, or otherwise to be occupied with her than with any duty of every-day life. It did not come to his head simply that to such a fire it was not enough to bring common fuel, such as is put in a chimney, but that there was need to sprinkle on it frankincense and myrrh, such as is sprinkled before an altar. If a man were to tell him something like this, he would shrug his shoulders, and look on him as a sentimentalist. Hence there was in him the carefulness of a husband, perhaps, but not the anxiety of a lover,—concern, watching, or awe of that kind which, in the lower circles of earthly feelings, corresponds to fear of God in religion. On a time when, after the sale of Kremen, Marynia was indifferent to him, he felt and passed through all this; but now, and even beginning with Litka’s death, when he received the assurance that she was his property, he thought no more of her than was necessary to think of property. His feeling, resting pre-eminently on her physical charm, possessed what it wanted, and was at rest; while time could only vulgarize, cool, and dull it.

Even now, though still vivid, it lacks the alert and careful tenderness which existed, for example, in his feeling for Litka. And Marynia noticed this. Why was it so? To this she could not answer; but still she saw clearly that she was for this man, to whom she wished to be everything, something more common and less esteemed than the dead Litka.

It did not occur to her, and she could not imagine by any means, that the only reason was this,—that that child was not his, while she had given him soul and body. She judged that the more she gave, the more she ought to receive and have. But time brought her in this regard many disappointments. She could not but notice, too, that all are under a certain charm of hers; that all value her, praise her; that Svirski, Bigiel, Zavilovski, and even Pan Osnovski, look on her, not only with admiration, but with enthusiasm almost; while “Stas” regards her distinguishing traits less than any man. It had not occurred to her for a moment that he could be incapable of seeing in her and valuing that which others saw and valued so easily. What was the cause, then, of this? These questions tormented her night and day now. She saw that Pan Stanislav feigned to have in all cases a character somewhat colder and more serious than he had in reality, but to her this did not seem a sufficient answer. Unfortunately only one answer remained: “He does not love me as he might, and therefore does not value me as others do.” There was in this as much truth as disappointment and sadness.

The instinct of a woman, which, in these cases, never deceives her, warned Marynia that she had made an uncommon impression on Zavilovski; that that impression increased with every meeting. And this thought did not make her indignant; she did not burst out with the angry question, “How dare he?” since, for that matter, he had not dared anything,—on the contrary, it gave her a certain comfort, certain confidence in her own charm, which at moments she had begun to lose, but withal it roused the greater sorrow that such honor, such enthusiasm, should be shown her by some stranger, and not by “Stas.” As to Zavilovski, she felt nothing for him save a great sympathy and good-will; hence her thoughts remained pure. She was incapable of amusing herself through vanity by the suffering of another; and for that reason, not wishing him to go too far, she associated herself willingly with the plan of Pani Aneta of bringing him into more intimate relations with Panna Castelli, though that plan seemed to her as abrupt as it was unintelligible. Moreover, her heart and mind were occupied thoroughly with the questions: Why does that kind, wise, beloved “Stas” not go to the heights with her? why does he not value her as he might? why does he only love her, but is not in love with her? why does he consider her love as something belonging to him, but not as something precious? whence is this, and where lies the cause of it?

Every common, selfish nature would have found all the fault in him; Marynia found it in herself. It is true that she made the discovery through foreign aid; but she was always so eager to remove from “Stas” every responsibility, and take it on herself, that though it caused fear, this discovery brought her delight almost.

Once, on an afternoon, she was sitting by herself, with her hands on her knees, lost in thoughts and questions to which she could find no answer, when the door opened, and in it appeared the white head-dress and dark robe of a Sister of Charity.

“Emilka!” cried Marynia, with delight.

“Yes; it is I,” said the Sister. “This is a free day for me, and I wished to visit thee. Where is Pan Stanislav?”

“Stas is at the Mashkos, but he will return soon. Ah, how glad he will be! Sit down and rest.”

Pani Emilia sat down and began to talk. “I should run in oftener,” said she, “but I have no time. Since this is a free day, I was at Litka’s. If you could see how green the place is, and what birds are there!”

“We were there a few days ago. All is blooming; and such rest! What a pity that Stas is not at home!”

“True; besides, he has a number of Litka’s letters. I should like to ask him to lend them to me. Next week I’ll run in again and return them.”

Pani Emilia spoke calmly of Litka now. Maybe it was because there remained of herself only the shadow of a living person, which was soon to be blown away; but for the time there was in it undisturbed calm. Her mind was not absorbed so exclusively now by misfortune, and that previous indifference to everything not Litka had passed. Having become a Sister of Charity, she appeared again among people, and had learned to feel everything which made their fortune or misfortune, their joy or their sorrow, or even pleasure or suffering.

“But how nice it is in this house! After our naked walls, everything here seems so rich to me. Pan Stanislav was very indolent at one time: he visited the Bigiels and us, never wished to be elsewhere; but now I suppose he bestirs himself, and you receive many people?”

“No,” answered Marynia; “we visit only the Mashkos, Pani Bronich, and the Osnovskis.”

“But wait! I know Pani Osnovski; I knew her before she was married. I knew the Broniches, too, and their niece; but she had not grown up then. Pan Bronich died two years ago. Thou seest how I know every one.”

Marynia began to laugh. “Really, more people than I do. I made the acquaintance of the Osnovskis in Rome only.”

“But I lived so many years in Warsaw, and everything came to my ears. I was in the house apparently, but the world occupied me. So frivolous was I in those days! For that matter, thy present Pan Stas knew Pani Osnovski.”

“He told me so.”

“They met at public balls. At that time she was to marry Pan Kopovski. There were tears and despair, for her father opposed it. But she succeeded well, did she not? Pan Osnovski was always a very good man.”

“And to her he is the very best. But I did not know that she was to marry Kopovski; and that astonishes me, she is so intelligent.”

“Praise to God, she is happy, if she would think so! Happiness is a rare thing, and should be used well. I have learned now to look at the world quite impartially, as only those can who expect nothing for themselves from it; and knowest thou what comes more than once to my head? That happiness is like eyes,—any little mote, and at once tears will follow.”

Marynia laughed a little sadly, and said,—

“Oi! that’s a great truth.”

A moment of silence ensued; then Pani Emilia, looking attentively at Marynia, laid her transparent hand on her hand mildly, and asked,—

“But thou, Marynia, art happy, art thou not?”

Such a desire to weep seized Marynia on a sudden that she resisted it only with the utmost effort; that lasted, however, one twinkle. Her whole honest soul trembled suddenly at the thought that her tears or sorrow would be a kind of complaint against her husband; therefore she mastered her emotion by strength of will, and said,—

“If only Stas is happy!” And she raised her eyes, now perfectly calm, to Pani Emilia, who said,—

“Litka will obtain that for thee. I inquired only because thou wert in appearance somehow gloomy, as I entered. But I know best how he loved thee, and how unhappy he was when thou wert angry with him because of Kremen.”

Marynia’s face was bright with a smile. So pleasant to her was every word of his former love that she was ready to listen to that kind of narrative, even if it went on forever.

Pani Emilia continued, while touching her hand: “But thou, ugly child, wert so cruel as neither to value nor regard his true attachment, and I was angry at times with thee. At times I feared for the honest Pan Stanislav; I was afraid that he would grow sick of life, lose his mind, or become misanthropic. For seest thou when one wrinkle is made in the depth of the heart, it may not be smoothed for a lifetime.”

Marynia raised her head, and began to blink as if some light had struck her eyes suddenly.

“Emilka, Emilka!” cried she, “how wise thy discourse is!”

Pani Emilia was called now “Sister Aniela;” but Marynia always gave her her old name.

“What! wise? I am just talking of old times. But Litka will implore for thee happiness, which God will grant, for thou and Stas deserve it, both of you.”

And she made ready to go. Marynia tried to detain her till “Stas” came, but in vain, for work was awaiting her in the institution. She chatted, however, at the door, fifteen minutes longer, in the manner of women; at last she went away, promising to visit them again the coming week.

Marynia returned to her armchair at the window, and, resting her head on her hand, fell to meditating on Pani Emilia’s words; after a while she said, in an undertone,—

“The fault is mine.”

It seemed to her that she had the key to the enigma,—she had not known how to respect a power so true and so mighty as love is. And now, in her terrified heart, that love seemed a kind of offended divinity which punishes. In the old time Pan Stanislav had been on his knees in her presence. As often as they met, he had looked into her eyes, watching for forgiveness from her heart, and from those memories, pleasant, departed, but dear, which connected them. If at that time she had brought herself to straightforwardness, to magnanimity; if she had extended her hands to him, as her secret feeling commanded,—he would have been grateful all his life, he would have honored her, he would have honored and loved with the greater tenderness, the more he felt his own fault and her goodness. But she had preferred to swaddle and nurse her feeling of offence, and coquet at the same time with Mashko. When it was necessary to forget, she would not forget; when it was necessary to forgive, she would not forgive. She preferred to suffer herself, provided he suffered also. She had given her hand to Pan Stanislav when she could not do otherwise, when not to give it would have been simply dishonorable and stupid stubbornness. That stifled love, it is true, rose up in its whole irrepressible might then, and she loved, heart and soul, but too late. Love had been injured; something had broken, something had perished. In his heart there had come an ill-omened wrinkle like that of which Pani Emilia had spoken; and now she, Marynia, was harvesting only what she had sown with her own hand.

He is not guilty of anything in this case, and if any one has spoiled another’s life, it is not he who has spoiled her life; it is she who has spoiled his.

Such a terror possessed her at this thought, and such sorrow, that for a moment she looked at the future with perfect amazement. And she wished to weep, too, and weep like a little child. If Pani Emilia had not gone, she would have done so on her shoulder. She was so penetrated with the weight of her own offences that if at that moment some one had come and tried to free her of this weight, if this one had said to her, “Thou art as guilty as a dove,” she would have considered the speech dishonest. The most terrible point in her mental conflict was this,—that at the first moment the loss seemed irreparable, and that in the future it might be only worse and worse, because “Stas” would love her less and less, and would have the right to love her less and less,—in one word, she saw no consolation before her.

Logic said this to her: “To-day it is good in comparison with what it may be to-morrow; after to-morrow, a month, or a year. And here it is a question of a lifetime!”

And she began to exert her poor tortured head to discover, if not a road, at least some path, by which it would be possible to issue from those snares of unhappiness. At last, after a long effort, after God knows how many swallowed tears, it seems to her that she sees a light, and that that light, in proportion as she looks at it, increases.

There is, however, something mightier than the logic of misfortune, mightier than committed offences, mightier than an offended divinity, which knows nothing but vengeance,—and this is the mercy of God.

She has offended; therefore she ought to correct herself. It is needful, then, to love “Stas,” so that he may find all which has perished in his heart; it is needful to have patience, and not only not to complain of her present lot, but to thank God and “Stas” that it is such as it is. If greater griefs and difficulties should come, it is necessary to hide them in her heart in silence, and endure long, very long, even whole years, till the mercy of God comes.

The path began to change then into a highway. “I shall not go astray,” said Marynia to herself. She wanted to weep from great joy then; but she judged that she could not permit that. Besides, “Stas” might return at any moment, and he must find her with dry eyes.

In fact, he returned soon. Marynia wished at the first moment to throw herself on his neck, but she felt such guilt in reference to him that some sudden timidity stopped her; and he, kissing her on the forehead, inquired,—

“Was any one here?”

“Emilia was, but she could not stay longer. She will come next week.”

He was irritated at this.

“But, my God! thou knowest that it is such a pleasure for me to see her; why not let me know? Why didst thou not think of me, knowing where I was?”

She, like a child explaining itself, spoke with a voice in which tears were trembling, but in which there was at the same time a certain trust,—

“No, Stas, on the contrary, as I love, I was thinking all the time of thee.”